


Follow the Yellow Brick Road, or A Girl and Her Hellbeast

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [19]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Humor, Pylea, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stranded in Pylea, Dawn Summers is determined to find her sister and a way home - with some help from her trusty vampire companion.  The only problem is, Spike's not quite himself at the moment...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow the Yellow Brick Road, or A Girl and Her Hellbeast

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

There was a whole lot of hard underneath her, and something bright and hot was stabbing her eyes. Stab. Stab. Stab-stab. Dawn blinked and rolled over, creaky and old-woman slow. Someone had velcroed her to the ground with sticks and old leaves, and a dozen twiggy little fingers snagged her hair. The stabby thing was sunlight, filtering down through an irregular canopy of leaves. "And we call this enemy the sun," she muttered. She squinted up through the branches. "Or suns, as the case may be."

A dust-devil of fear and excitement spun through her gut. It had worked, then. She sat up and rubbed her gritty eyes. She was sitting in a drift of old leaves beneath a mossy, undercut bank in the middle of a wood. For a hell dimension, Pylea was pretty big on the scenic. The trees were sparse enough that she could see for a good distance around, but there was no one else in sight. Unfamiliar birdsong twittered in the background, and by the angle of the freaky double shadows it was a little before or a little after noon. Dawn picked up a handful of leaf mold, sifting fragments of leaves and bark through her fingers. Were these the same trees she knew? Names went through her head, oak and alder and beech. _Face it, Summers, the only beech you could tell on sight has lifeguards and towels._

She got to her feet and climbed out of the hollow, rubbing her elbows and looking around with growing unease. "Buffy?" Her voice was obtrusively loud and absurdly tiny at the same time; no one more than ten feet away could have heard her, but the birdsong shut off like someone had flipped a switch in the sound room. She felt terribly exposed all of a sudden, and backed hurriedly into the nearest tree. The bark under her fingers wasn't as reassuring as she'd hoped it would be. "Willow? Spike?"

No answer. No sound at all except the wind in the branches and the returning chirpy noises--birds, frogs, vermicious knids, who knew? Where was everyone else? The metal was supposed to keep them together, wasn't it?

There was a path of some kind a few yards away, barely more than a set of overgrown wheel-ruts winding between the trees. She walked over and crouched down to examine it; she couldn't make head or tails of the faint marks, but she didn't think any of them looked very recent. Still, trail, right? Had to be better than wandering in circles. Except weren't you supposed to stay put when you were lost? They'd be looking for her. They _had_ to. Key Girl was their ticket home.

Dawn looked up as a new sound intruded on the silence, a _clop-clop-click-clop-clop_ more regular than wind or birdsong. A horse, or something like it, coming towards her at a brisk walk and kicking up the occasional stone. That was good, in theory. She could ask directions, find out where she was and if anyone had seen the others.

Or she could hide under the bank and pray the Black Riders didn't get her. Dawn dove for the little hollow and burrowed down under the leaves, trying to breathe softly. The hoofbeats grew closer and more distinct. Two riders, going more slowly as they approached.

"Here?" a voice said.

There was a rustling, slapping, leathery noise. "That's what the oracle said. I don't see any--"

"Wait," the first voice interrupted. "I smell cow." Booted feet thumped to the ground. "Look here. Footprints."

Dawn silently cursed the fresh and distinctive treads of her hiking boots. Crap. Maybe she should take the initiative here. The cow thing wasn't encouraging, but there'd been reforms, hadn't there? Cordelia had left Pylea a bastion of truth, justice, and no more trading humans for quatloos. She stood up with her perkiest smile and most puppyish eyes, and waved. "Hey. I'm kinda lost. Could you guys do me a super big favor and point me towards the Library of, uh, Korthspar? Am I pronouncing that right?"

The riders were dressed in brown and green, not black, but they were otherwise sufficiently scary, being charter members of Star Trek's Forehead Of The Month Club with a sideline in tusks and bristles. "That's her!" the first one cried, pulling a big-ass knife from his belt and brandishing it with alarming enthusiasm. "Get her!"

Dawn braced herself, trying to remember all the moves applicable to two guys charging you with drawn knives, and then realized that none of said moves worked really well when the charge in question involved half a ton of horse. She whirled and ran like hell, something she was damned good at, thank you very much, no stupid high heel tripping for this little black duck. The cavalry thundered after her; she could hear the jingle of tack and the snorts of the horses getting closer and closer and...

"RRRAAAAARRAAAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHH!!"

She _knew_ that roar. A scaly grey-green blur dropped out of the branches overhead, fangs flashing, claws tearing, eyes blazing. It looked kind of like a cross between a velociraptor and Mighty Joe Young. It fell on the haunches of the nearest horse, rear talons digging bloody furrows in the beast's rump. The horse screamed in terror, rearing and thrashing, and the Thing closed on its rider. Ivory fangs tore through leather and flesh, and blood spattered the ground as the rider toppled over, still trapped in the Thing's savage grip. Dawn heard bone crunch and shatter beneath the pressure of those powerful jaws, and the rider screamed along with his horse and went limp. The Thing spun around with a snarl of fury, bloody jaws slavering.

The first rider's horse was hightailing it for elsewhere. The second rider was fighting with his own plunging mount. Sulfur-yellow eyes narrowed, powerful muscles bunched, and the Thing leaped again, its scimitar fangs meeting in the horse's throat, crushing its windpipe. Underbrush snapped and tore as the horse crashed to the forest floor in a spray of crimson. The Thing abandoned it for its rider, rending, tearing, burying its bloodstained muzzle in the red ruin of its prey's chest.

Dawn clung to the bole of the nearest not-beech and watched, sickened and fascinated, her heart clawing its way up her throat. The Thing raised its gory head and turned, its citrine gaze pinning her to the tree. It snuffed the air and growled deep in its chest, a low, rumbling, oddly pleased sound. She knew that growl, too. It left the limp red rags of flesh lying on the trampled ground and prowled towards her on all fours, its wide nostrils drinking in her scent. It dropped haunches to ground a foot or two away from her and sat there, licking its chops and regarding her with unfathomable golden eyes.

And most of all, she knew those eyes.

Possessed of a crazy, trembling confidence, Dawn stretched out a hand. The Thing sniffed her knuckles and allowed her to run her fingers through the coarse curly mane that ran from the back of its skull down the curve of its shoulders. Growing bolder, she stroked its head, rubbing around the bases of the spiky horns framing jaw and forehead. The Thing's eyes slitted to crescent moons of bliss and it nuzzled her hand with rough affection, leaving smears of drying blood.

"Spike?" she whispered.

The Thing cocked its head to one side, as if thinking very hard, and then its long, raspy pink tongue curled around her wrist. Dawn fell to her knees with a sob of relief and flung her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his hideous spiny muzzle--that was vampire for hello, wasn't it? Spike didn't hug back, but he broke into a thunderous purr and head-butted her enthusiastically. Dawn sat down abruptly under the onslaught. "Whoa! Human and fragile here!" She hugged him again. "Can you...talk?"

Spike blinked and nuzzled her shoulder with an agreeable little rumble.

"I guess that means no. But you can understand me, right?"

Blink.

"A little? Maybe?" Dawn got to her feet and looked around. "Who were those guys? Do you know where Buffy and Willow are?"

Spike shook himself, eyed the remains of the horsemen (horsedemons?) and snorted as if congratulating himself on a job well done. He got up and ambled back to the bodies, still on all fours. Dawn followed, uncertain. He nosed disdainfully at the two fallen demons, then flopped down in the scrubby grass and began ripping into the horse's jugular, gorging happily at the bloody feast. Dawn waited for a moment, then bent down and tugged at his shoulder. "Shouldn't we look for the others?"

Spike looked up, narrow-eyed, and growled. He might have gone all spiny and scaly, but he still had the most expressive eyes she'd ever seen, and right now they were expressing _I'm hungry. Don't bother me_. A second later it seemed to occur to him that perhaps he was being ill-mannered; he ripped a dripping hunk of horseflesh free of the carcass and nosed it towards Dawn with a look of polite contrition.

"Uh...thanks, but no thanks." Dawn clapped a hand over her mouth and went over to a nearby tree to sit and wait it out; she prided herself on not getting squicked by vampire stuff, but this was a little bit too Animal Channel for comfort. While Spike fed, she watched the shadows and tried to figure out which way was north, not that it helped any since she didn't have any idea what direction anything was in. It had been around eight in the morning when Willow had done the portal spell, but who knew if time here was like time at home? And how long had she been unconscious? She was thirsty, and a little hungry--well, not so much hungry after another look at Spike's lunch. She swallowed queasily. Should she be trying to salvage some of the horsemeat and...dry it, or cook it or something?

It hit her for the first time that her backpack was nowhere to be seen. That meant no lighter, no jackknife, no fifty-foot rope, no first aid kit, no canteen, and no emergency copy of the pltzgrb incantation. Oh, God, she was screwed.

But not entirely without resources. Face screwed up in disgust, Dawn returned to the scene of the crime. She navigated gingerly around the oblivious Spike and knelt down beside the least-mangled of the demon riders. He was carrying a leather satchel and the aforementioned big-ass knife, both of which she appropriated. The more-mangled rider had a similar satchel and a small leather bag full of weirdly-stamped bronze and silver coins. Neither of them were packed for a long journey, so obviously there must be civilization somewhere nearby.

She took everything she could carry and retreated to her tree to sort through the spoils of war. She'd consolidated most of the useful items into one satchel when Spike, having finally drunk his fill of horse, wandered over to drop down heavily at her side with a contented belch. He proceeded to wash his face and paws, licking meticulously between his toes... fingers... whatever... like a cat. Toilet concluded, he laid his spiny head on crossed forelimbs and watched her picking through the contents of the satchels with the detached interest of a man indulging a friend's pointless hobby. After awhile his eyelids began to droop, and he yawned and curled up, head against her thigh.

Dawn poked him. "You can't go to sleep! We need to find water!"

Spike opened one eye and growled softly, rolling over to expose his bulging tummy. _I've just eaten half a horse, you silly bint. What we do now is take a nap._

"Look, I can't see well enough in the dark to travel at night, remember? And I've got to have water."

For a moment Spike didn't move. Then he heaved a martyred sigh, rolled to his feet and threw back his head, scenting the air. After a long moment he grunted and set off at a purposeful lope, looking back impatiently to see if she was following. Dawn took a deep breath, stuck the knife in her belt and slung the satchel over her shoulder, and trotted after.

Hell was beautiful this time of year, but after two or three long hours of trudging along a dusty, stony trail in what must have been ninety-plus degree heat, Dawn was heartily sick of the whole place. She'd never been much into the great outdoors as a concept, and the novelty of having two shadows wore off really fast. Once you'd seen one picturesque glen or flower-strewn meadow, you'd seen them all. Spike ranged ahead and circled behind, leaping out unexpectedly from behind rocks and fallen logs to chivvy her on whenever he felt her merely human pace was lagging. Vampires were such urban creatures, she'd have figured him for a spazmo in the wilderness, but Dawn strongly suspected he was enjoying himself.

Of course, Spike wasn't exactly a vampire any longer. Or was he? Willow had said something about metaphysical laws being different in other dimensions. Maybe this was what vampires looked like here. Or maybe someone had met _him_ straight out of the portal (and what was with that, anyway?) and zapped him with a shape-changing spell.

The satchel was digging into her shoulder something fierce; obviously ergonomic backpack design was not an art much practiced by the locals. "Time out," she shouted as they reached the top of the next rise. "Pebble break." She halted in the shade of some trees that were close enough to pines for government work and leaned against a lichen-covered boulder. Up here there was a breeze, at least. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and bent to pry her left boot off.

Spike came bounding up, leaped atop the boulder and crouched there, observing the process over her shoulder. His hide blended almost perfectly with the rock beneath him. It was weird, how much he still looked like Spike, despite the Godzilla effect--the eyes, of course, but he still moved like Spike, and did that head-tilt thing, and there was even something Spikey left in the angles of his bestial face. Dawn frowned, smacking the boot against her palm. "The way I see it, there's two big questions. Who were those guys and how did they know I was going to be there, and did someone do this to you or did it just happen? Honestly, you don't seem to be real upset. You'd think you turned into a demon every day."

Spike yawned, displaying a deep red cavern lined in razor-sharp teeth. _Bit, I'm not going to dignify that with a reply._

"Shut up, you know what I mean. Do you remember how it happened? Ethan Rayne turned Giles into a Fyarl that once. Did someone--"

Spike ran his tongue out with a barking noise that Dawn was certain was derisive laughter. "Well, how about one snarl for yes and two snarls for no?" She bent to put her boot back on, grumpy with heat and thirst. "You're not exactly Mr. Communication today!"

His horned head bumped her shoulder, and Spike took the sleeve of her t-shirt in his teeth with a little whine. Dawn moaned and slumped back against the rock. "Fine. I'm sorry I didn't let you sleep, OK? Are you happy? Can I rest for ten minutes now?" Spike tugged harder, and Dawn rammed her foot back into her boot and stumbled to her feet. "Great. Whatever. Lead on, MacGruff. My feet won't hurt after they've fallen off--oh!"

Once past the crest of the rise, the ground fell away down a steep bank covered in knee-high bracken, and at the foot of the cut, a swift-running creek rattled along between ranks of faux-oak and pseudo-alder, deep brown pools alternating with frothing white rapids. The path ran down the bank, crossed the stream at a shallow ford, and disappeared into the trees on the other side. The rush of the water over the rocks was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

Spike plunged down the cut and splashed into the creek as if he'd personally arranged to have it put there. Dawn raced headlong after him, sliding to her knees in the muddy drifts of leaves at the water's edge. Probably bears had pissed in it, but who cared? She dunked her head and flung her dripping hair back, scooping up handful after handful of cold crisp liquid. Spike lapped a courtesy mouthful, but the water didn't interest him nearly as much as the dead horse had. He shook himself, generously providing Dawn with an unexpected shower, and padded over to the nearest pool to study his reflection--hey, how about that, Spike had a reflection!--from various angles, twisting and turning in ludicrous figure-eights in the attempt to see all of himself.

Come to think about it, the not bursting into flame was a new talent, too. Dawn looked up, squinting through the branches. The suns, while still a good distance from the horizon, were definitely sinking. Two (unfortunately mostly empty) leather water bottles had formed part of her looting spree. Dawn pulled them out of the satchel to fill them, a little dismayed to see how heavy they were when full. Her shoulder was gonna get sliced clean off, which was probably preferable to gradually dehydrating.

Mission accomplished, she crawled a little bit further up the bank and sat down amidst the bracken. The riders had been carrying some kind of gross, crumbly trail food wrapped up in waxy cloth: grain mixed up with suet and honey, maybe. If she hadn't been so hungry it would have been pretty revolting. Strike that--she was starving, and it was still revolting. What she wouldn't give for some good old marshmallow and macaroni casserole.

Spike climbed up to lie down beside her as she chewed on her unappetizing meal, with a look that said _you should have tried the horsemeat._ Dawn made herself comfortable against his scaly ribs and took the opportunity to give the new Spike a thorough examination. His hide looked and felt more like alligator than like snake, tough and leathery on his back and flanks, smooth and supple as kidskin on his chest and belly. The grey-green was mottled here and there with darker greens and browns, and faded to a gold-tinged cream on his belly. The only visible hair was the coarse mane which started behind his ears and ran down his spine to his shoulders. He had a tail, which she hadn't noticed at first--not much of a tail, only about six inches long, but it thumped when she rubbed his ears. He was still very obviously male, but the accoutrements were sheathed up close to his belly like a dog's, which made it slightly less embarrassing.

All of which was very interesting, but didn't tell her a darned thing about how he'd gotten this way, or what, if anything, she should do about it. "We need a plan," she said aloud.

Spike blinked in lazy agreement, but showed no particular inclination to propose one. It was difficult to tell how much he understood, but his demonic tendency to live in the moment seemed to be turned up to eleven in this shape. For once she was the hero and he was the sidekick, and the notion was kind of terrifying. "OK. You can find water, and that's cool. Food's going to be a problem." She waved the remains of her medieval power bar under his nose; he snorted with disgust. "You can hunt things, but I don't have any way to light a fire." She poked around in the satchel. "Unless this is a tinder box, but even if it is, I don't know how to use it."

Spike's left ear flicked forward. _Don't bloody ask me. I was born well after the invention of the lucifer._

"And no offense, but eating raw smeerp, or whatever they have around here, is a one-way ticket to an exciting death by alien parasites. So we've got to find real food." She hefted the bag of mystery coins. "We've got money, and this trail has to lead somewhere," she said. "So if we follow it, then--"

Both Spike's ears flicked to attention, and he shook his head violently.

"Oh, yeah? You have a better idea?"

He jerked his head upstream with a 'grrf!', heaved himself out from underneath her, trotted a few paces, and looked back expectantly.

Dawn folded her arms and glowered. "That's dumb. Everyone except those morons in _Blair Witch_ knows that you either stay on the path or you follow streams down."

The ears went back. "Raargh!"

"And your plans always work so well?"

Spike looked back the way they'd come, a determined glint in his eyes, and zip! he was behind her, shoving her in the direction he wanted her to go. Dawn tripped over a moss-slick rock and almost fell in the stream. "Hey! Quit that! Give me one good reason to go--"

_Clop-clop-clop-clop..._

Dawn had never realized that the sound of hooves could be so chilling. She dove down into the bracken, flat on her belly. Spike crouched beside her, motionless, his eyes molten slivers and his lips skinned back over his fangs. The creak of wheels and the jingle of harness soon joined the hoofbeats, and after an eternity, an ox-ish looking thing pulling a wagon full of purple cabbage-like plants came swaying around the bed of the road. Ox-Thing clomped to a ponderous halt on the other side of the stream, its wet nostrils flaring, and tossed its shaggy head with an unhappy bellow.

The saggy, warty demon in the driver's seat looked about uneasily, and flapped the reins at the creature's rump. "Gee up, Buttercup! We've no time to waste when night's coming!"

Buttercup slewed sideways, seeming greatly disinclined to gee. Spike stirred infinitesimally beside her, and Dawn realized the ox-critter had probably caught his scent. A second later she realized what the infinitesimal stirring meant.

"No, Spike!" she hissed. He froze, his eyes half-glazed with bloodlust. "You can't possibly be hungry and they haven't done anything--"

A rusty-tan creature sat up by the warty driver's side, growling. It looked a little like Spike, except smaller, with more mane and no horns. It braced its forefeet against the side of the cart and snarled in their direction. This was apparently too much for Spike to endure; he snarled back, ears flat and tail lashing. The driver scrabbled about in the seat for a crossbow. "I'm armed!" he shouted, waving the weapon about in a manner more threatening to random tree branches than to his assailants. "You'll not take me alive, you brigands!"

This was getting out of hand. Admittedly the direct approach hadn't worked so well the first time, but... Dawn rose cautiously to her feet, one hand wound tightly in Spike's mane. He was growling non-stop now, straining against her grip as if he'd like nothing better than to give the farmer, his ox, and his little dog Toto the same treatment he'd given the riders. "No, Spike!" she repeated. "We're not brigands," she shouted down to the farmer. "We're just trying to find the nearest town. I'm looking for my sister, Buffy Summers--" Spike interrupted his growling for an eager whine--"She's like me, except shorter and with lighter hair. Our friend Willow might be with her--she either looks like me except with red hair, or like him--" she pointed at Spike. "I'm not sure which. Have you seen them?"

The farmer cuffed his dog-thing (which was still yammering at Spike) and stood up in the box, peering short-sightedly at her and clutching the crossbow. "Why, you're but a little girl-cow," he said.

Spike's eyes went red and he lunged at the cart with a slavering roar, dragging Dawn several feet down the bank before she could wrestle him under control again. "I'm not little, and if I were you I'd lay off the C-word. He gets cranky."

"These are parlous times, when honest tillers of the soil are accosted by..." The farmer broke off with a cautious glance at Spike. "..._humans_ at every turn! I suppose you'll be demanding tribute, aye, and calling it--"

"All I want is to find my sister." And the books they'd come for--wouldn't it be wicked cool if she and Spike could complete the mission while Buffy was wandering around in the wilderness somewhere? "Can you tell us where the nearest town is? Or take us there?" She reached into the satchel and extracted a random coin from the leather bag. "We can pay."

The farmer's eyes widened. "Why didn't you say so, young miss? Climb aboard!"

It didn't take Dawn long to decide that she'd made a huge mistake.

Riding an ox-cart turned out to be not much faster than walking, the ox-thing smelled like butt, the wheels kicked up entire Depression-Era novels worth of dust, and independent suspension was still on the drawing board. She clung to the seat of the wagon as it clunked into another rut and lurched out again. Just think, Mom could have saved all that money on dental work if she'd known Dawn would have all her teeth jarred loose by the age of sixteen. Spike and Tobi (Tobi was the trackerbeast) crouched in opposite corners of the wagonbed, snarling across the heap of alien cabbages and doubtless hatching plans to do away with one another at the earliest opportunity.

At least Farmer MacGregor (his real name was Grntspruut of the Gathwok Clan, but Dawn wasn't even going to try that one) seemed more than willing to shoulder the lion's share of the conversational burden. "...Korthspar, eh? You're well out of your way, young miss, for it's a good fifty leagues south of here. I've heard nowt of any who might be this sister of yours, but could be you'll find news in Leetle Cheeping. There's to be a fair this very morrow, and travelers from aye and about'll be there for the inquiring. It's a good thing for you I happened along, young miss," he said, shaking a blunt-clawed finger beneath her nose. "The roads aren't safe for lone travelers these days."

"I didn't realize," Dawn said in the breathless, you-are-so-wise tone she'd perfected on teachers and social workers in the last two years. "I heard that Pylea was very law-abiding."

MacGregor shook his head, plucked a straw from the brim of his hat, and sucked on it mournfully. "Time was, young miss, a pretty young maid could walk the length and breadth of this land decked out in gold and jewels, and none touch a wart on her nose. But there's been naught but trouble since the Covenant fell from power some years since--not what it wasn't their own fault, mind you, putting a co-a human on the throne, Sight or no Sight! Heedless, silly thing she was, pronounced a passel of new laws and pranced off leaving the Groosalugg to rule. I'll not argue he wasn't a mighty champion, but--" MacGregor tapped his forehead. "His virtue was in his thews and not his thoughts, and had no more idea how to run a kingdom than to fly to the moon. Inside a year the realm was in shambles and he was gone, clean disappeared. Some say as the remains of the Covenant had him slain, others say he followed his cow princess..." He cast a wary look at Spike, but Spike didn't seem to object to the adjective when applied to Cordelia. "Be as may, there's been war since, this band and that claiming the right to rule. Frothgar of the Deathwok Clan holds sway hereabouts, but there's riff-raff of all kinds abroad, and few of them friendly towards your kind, begging your pardon. You'd do best to stick close by me till you find your friends."

If what he said was true (and that was super-sized if) that pretty much aced the idea of claiming to be an emissary for Princess Cordelia. There should be some kind of law about fairy tales meeting realpolitik. "Which side's winning the war?"

MacGregor spat over the side of the cart. "Don't know, and don't care. The only difference it'll make to us is what livery the tax collectors show up wearing come harvest time." His eyes darted over her, as if he were assessing a flehegna heifer, and he fingered the sleeve of her t-shirt with one gnarled paw. Was that glitter in his eyes cunning, or greed, or just dust? "N'er have I seen the likes of this cloth, fine as gadnar silk and so cunning wove! You must have traveled far indeed, young miss."

Dawn squirmed, recalling Spike's sage advice that a lie was all the better for having some truth in it. "Yeah, I make finding Nemo look like a trip to Circle K. I'm going to Korthspar to search the library for an, uh, sick friend of ours. Of the Deathwok Clan." Better not get too specific; Angel and Wesley had separately impressed upon all of them that Lorne wasn't exactly a celebrity in his home town. "His sensing talent thing that they do? It's kind of been out of whack lately. Almost as if he's been cursed." Warming to her tale, she added, "He's at death's door, all pale and languishing and feverish. So we swore a mighty oath to travel the length and breadth of the land and bring him healing or perish in the attempt--"

MacGregor seemed duly impressed; apparently heroics went over big in Pylea. The forest thinned and disappeared, replaced by fields and pastures and farmsteads. They began to run into other travelers: on foot, riding horses, driving flocks of sheep or pigs or herds of flehegna (that being the proper name of the ox-thing). They rode wagons and pushed wheelbarrows full of vegetables or racks of dried fish or bolts of cloth. They reached the walls of Leetle Cheeping an hour or so before sundown, passed through the gates by a couple of bored-looking Deathwok Clanners in rusty, ill-kept armor. It was a bustling metropolis of several thousand people (using the term 'people' very loosely).

Dawn stared as MacGregor urged Buttercup down the main street. The center of town boasted cobbled streets and tile-roofed stone buildings rising two or three stories tall, but most of the streets were muddy and most of the shops and houses were wood and plaster and thatch. All around were demons: pale, jowly demons of the Gathwok Clan; green-skinned, crimson-eyed demons of the Deathwok Clan; hooded, rust-skinned demons of the Covenant of Trombli; and ordinary humans bustling in all directions. The stench was incredible--open sewers and rotting food and way, way too many species of unwashed bodies. Not that she was all that fragrant herself at this point, but ugh. She wondered how Spike could stand it, but then, he _was_ a demon, so maybe this was roses to him.

"I guess this is where we get off," Dawn said. She fished the silver coin she'd waved at him originally--neither the largest nor the smallest--out of the pouch and offered it to MacGregor. "Is this enough?" She made her eyes all wide and pitiful. "It's all I have." Somewhere Anya was probably committing ritual suicide in shame in having failed to pass on any of her haggling skills, but if she was giving the guy a hundred-dollar tip on a ten dollar cab fare she was just going to have to soak it up. At least she wasn't dumb enough to let on that she had a fistful of dollars just like it.

MacGregor snatched the coin readily enough, but when she started to hop off the wagon seat he laid a clawed hand on her arm to restrain her. "Not so hasty, young miss!" At Spike's warning growl and the old farmer let go immediately. "What I mean to say is, my conscience wouldn't let me rest, knowing a morsel like you was wandering round a rough place like this untended, and I'll tell you now, you'll not get an innkeeper in town to admit that beast of yours."

Dawn glanced at Spike, who was hanging over the side of the wagon bed with his tongue lolling out, eying the passers-by as if trying to pick out the juiciest. "Why not?"

"Don't you know what you've got there, girl? That's no common trackerbeast, that's a Van-tal, one of the drinkers of blood. 'Tis a curse passed only among c-humans, that if one's bit, they die, and rise again, seeming healthy and well--but soon or late the rage takes them and they transform into this dreadful monster, fearsome as a drokken, which kills all about it for the pleasure of seeing the blood run. When they come to themselves again they may remember nowt of it, and go on as before, until the rage takes them again. Come to the last, if they're not found out and slain, they become the beast for good and all, and never walk as a man again."

Huh. It sounded like vampirism worked more like werewolf stuff here. It was a relief to know that Spike could turn back, if only he could figure out how--he made a cool demon-thing, but Spike without running commentary was deeply wrong. "I know what Spike is." Dawn patted his shoulder. "But he's different. He's..."

"Aye, and you can explain that to the innkeeper afeard of having his paying customers slaughtered in the night?"

Dawn looked around; the streets were starting to empty, and smoky yellow lights were coming on in the windows. Her stomach growled loudly enough to make Spike blink. "We'll sleep in an alley, then."

"And get rapped on the head by the night watch for vagrants and thieves? No, missy, I couldn't rest easy knowing you were huddled shivering on muddy cobbles whilst I slept soft and safe. Listen: The owner of the Blighted Pig is well-known to me, and on my word she'll grant the both of you leave to sleep in the stables. Tisn't fancy, but you'll sleep warm and dry, and have a sup as good as any in the old palace as was. Then in the morning you can inquire about your sister around and about the fair."

"Well..." She didn't entirely trust MacGregor; demons weren't always evil, but they generally looked out for number one, and all this altruism for a total stranger was suspicious. But she was in a strange town in a strange world, and now that the suns were down, it was starting to get surprisingly chilly. The idea of spending the night in the gutter was gross beyond belief, especially considering some of the things floating in it. "OK. Lead the way."

Grigna, the owner of the Blighted Pig, was a large Deathwok woman with a gimlet eye and impressive biceps, very Charles Dickens-meets-Terry Pratchett. The inn's trackerbeast, a huge grizzled grey and black creature missing half an ear and covered with scars, snarled at them from a kennel near the front door. Hmph. There was no denying Spike was far handsomer: sleek and muscular, with bright eyes, well-shaped horns and glossy scales.

Grigna planted one fist on an aproned hip and looked the two of them up and down, stroking her blazing orange beard. "So, you want to stay the night?" she rumbled. "And I suppose you want to be fed on top of it. What if this creature of yours runs amuck, or frets the horses?"

"Spike won't cause any trouble," Dawn assured her. Spike lowered his head and matched the rumble, pressing close to Dawn's side. "He's perfectly safe, most of the time, as long as you don't get him mad and he's not too hungry and--and I can sweep up the stable or wash dishes or something." She didn't want to fling any more money around till she had a chance to do some clandestine observation at the fair tomorrow, and get an idea what things cost.

"Come, Grigna," MacGregor said with an ingratiating grin. "Do them a good turn and it'll come back to you, as Frugot says."

Grigna shot him a significant look which had Dawn's hackles almost as bristly as Spike's. "True, true, must give a bit to get a bit. Here's an offer, girl: if you're out of money, as Goodman Grntspruut says, and that Van-tal of yours is as well-trained as you claim--"

"Aye, he's well-trained," MacGregor allowed. "I've never seen the like."

"--I'll take him off your hands for a tri-bit. I could use another good watchbeast."

"Spike's not _trained_ at all!" Dawn snapped. "I don't own him. He's a friend of mine. He goes where he likes."

"Aye?" Grigna said, as if the concept of 'friend' flummoxed her. "Perhaps you'd care to set up a match between your beast and our Goggle. Naught brings in the coppers faster than a good beastfight."

Dawn glanced over at Goggle. Goggle was bear-sized, considerably larger than Spike, but his ribs were showing and his hide was dull and patchy. "No, thanks. It wouldn't be fair to your beast."

Spike tucked in his chin, puffed out his chest, and preened. There was another exchange of significant looks, and Grigna shrugged. "Suit yourself. Stable's this way."

As they followed Grigna across the courtyard of the inn, Dawn had uneasy premonitions of trying to sleep between the hooves of a restless horse. But the small room to which the innkeeper ushered them was apparently meant to house the grooms and stableboys during the times when the inn was prosperous enough to afford them, which didn't seem to be the case at present. A door in the back opened directly into the stables proper, but the room itself was safely horse-free. It was dusty and obviously unused, but otherwise far superior to the gutter. There were three cots supplied with thick, scratchy wool blankets and musty straw-tick mattresses that made Dawn itch just looking at them. A small pot-bellied stove and a hod of rather damp coal took up one corner, and a small table the other. Spike padded in and began nosing around the room, poking his snout under the beds.

"Here's your lodgings," Grigna said. "You can come to the common room and fetch yourself a bowl of stew if you like, but the Van-tal stays here."

"I get a bowl for Spike too, of course," Dawn said, pleased that her haggling genes had finally kicked in. "Unless you have some fresh blood."

Grigna pulled a long face. "We slaughtered a pig this morning, but the drippings are marked for blood sausages--"

Spike lunged at something under the bed, shouldering the cot halfway off the ground. There was a snap and a crunch, and he backed out holding a spiny greyish thing that looked like a cross between a rat and a horny toad. He gave it a decisive, neck-snapping shake and pranced over to lay his prize at Dawn's feet. Dawn tried not to wince.

"Thanks, Spike. You can have it." Spike snapped the rat-lizard up and swallowed it whole, and Dawn gave Grigna a cool look. "Since he's going to be taking care of your rat-lizard problem for you..."

An hour later, she'd secured a light for the stove, a candle, a bowl of spicy and surprisingly good stew and a mug of small beer for herself and a bucket of pig's blood for Spike. Dawn set her empty bowl on the table and curled up on the sturdiest of the cots, a horse-blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Spike licked the last drop of pig from his muzzle, swiped a paw behind his ears and hopped up on the cot with her, laying his head in her lap. The two of them settled back with a mutual sigh of repletion.

She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep just yet. She leaned against the wall, watching the flicker of the coals through the grate of the stove, and threaded her fingers through Spike's mane, scratching behind his ears and down his neck and shoulders. Spike flexed his toes and groaned with pleasure, digging his claws into the blankets. Dawn grinned. "You are going to be SO embarrassed when you turn back into yourself, you big slut." Spike snorted, dismissing the possibility. "Farmer MacGregor said you could turn back, you know. Do you remember how?"

"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh." _Got a full belly and a pretty girl scratching my ears. Why would I want to?_

"Well, you can't stay like this forever." Dawn frowned down at the bonelessly relaxed demon at her side. "This fair thing sounds like our best bet for finding the others. Even if no one's seen them, we can tell people what they look like and leave messages and stuff. And we can find out exactly how to get to Korthspar." She yawned; the combination of a long hard day, a full stomach, and Spike's drowsy rasping purr was soporific. "But I gotta pee first. Did they leave us a chamber pot, or do we just piss against the wall like everyone else seems to?"

An examination of the cobwebby space under the cots revealed that there was, in fact, no chamberpot. Irritated, Dawn walked over to the door and tugged on the handle.

It was locked. From the outside.

"What the...Grigna must have locked it when she brought over your blood." After a futile rattle or two, she went over the the stable-side door. It, too, was immovable. Dawn kicked it, to no avail.

Spike's eyes narrowed. He reared upright, wrapped his finger-paws around the door latch and pulled, putting some vampire muscle into it. The door shuddered. Spike yanked again, harder, and the board in the latch outside snapped with a loud crack. Dawn peered out into the courtyard--she'd grown up in the light-haze of L. A., and the sheer darkness of the unelectrified night was creepy. The windows of the Blighted Pig were aglow with fire and lamplight, and the crowd of fair-goers staying there were obviously making a night of it. Roars of laughter and the drumming of dancing feet drifted across on the night air.

"Should we just make a run for it?" Dawn whispered. The thought of gutter-sleepage still wasn't very appetizing.

Spike eyed the lamplit windows and ran his tongue over his teeth.

"You're right, we need to find out what's going on. OK, this is where it would be really useful for you to turn human again, because I need those vampire ears and I need you to be able to tell me what they're saying."

A wrinkle appeared between Spike's brow ridges, and he turned round on his stubby tail several times in succession. He hunched his shoulders and scrunched his eyes shut. Nothing happened. After a moment he looked up at Dawn and whined.

Rats. "It's OK," she whispered. "You'll figure it out. It's like riding a bicycle. Did you ever learn how to ride a bicycle?"

Spike's ears went flat and his horned jaw thrust out. _You've got to be joking._

Dawn gave him a reassuring pat and pulled her blanket more firmly about her shoulders. If she was remembering right from her trip in to get the stew, Grigna's private quarters had been off at the rear of the inn, which would make them that window right over...there. "Come on, Spike. Let's see what we can find out."

She crept along the side of the inn, keeping a wary eye towards the front of the inn where Goggle snored and grumbled in restless sleep. The gigantic trackerbeast was chained to its kennel, but if it started making noise, they were in for it. Spike padded along behind her, yawning. Well, he'd had a hard day too, and done a lot more running around than she had. Even vampire stamina had its limits.

The glass in the windows was thick and wavery, impossible to see or hear through, but the corner of one windowpane was broken and a bundle of dirty rags had been stuffed into the gap. Dawn tugged the rotting cloth free and pressed her eye close to the triangular opening.

There were three people in the room: Grigna, MacGregor, and a Covenant guy in hooded robes. His hood was thrown back to reveal a bald, brick-red skull, and his ruddy forehead was tattooed with the creepy black eye symbols that signified a priest of the old order. He was pacing in small nervous circles, wearing more holes in the braided rag rug underfoot. Grigna was seated at a large desk covered with tally-books, accounts, receipts, quill pens, blotters, inkwells, and assorted other scholarly paraphernalia. MacGregor stood by the fireplace, pulling on a long-stemmed pipe, Tobi snoozing at his feet.

"...you're certain it's the cow the oracle spoke of?" the robed demon was saying.

"Now, how can anyone be certain of that, Zekediah, when the oracle's words can be read six ways today and seven on market-day?" MacGregor puffed on his pipe, sending a cloud of fragrant blue smoke towards the window. Dawn mashed her hand against her nose to stifle a sneeze. "The important thing is, there's sure to be someone who'll believe she's the cow the oracle spoke of, and pay well--"

Zekediah slammed a fist on Grigna's desk. "If she's truly the Key That Unlocks the Doors of Air, the last thing I want to do is sell her! She's our only hope for contacting the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart, and regaining control over the cursed cows--"

Dawn stuffed the rags back into the broken window and dropped to the ground beneath the sill, her heart slamming against her ribs. Crap, crap, crap! The riders Spike had killed had said something about an oracle, too--there must be a mystic APB out on her.

Until a week ago, when Wesley had done the divination to find the nearest dimensional hot spot, she'd been certain that she was de-Keyed, used up, plain ol' ordinary Dawn Summers. But guess what, the nearest dimensional hot spot turned out to be wherever plain ol' ordinary Dawn Summers was standing at the moment, and Fred pointed out that it wasn't really all _that_ likely that closing one measly Hellmouth could permanently deplete a mystical force designed to open and close all the dimensional walls in existence.

And it kinda hadn't sucked, being Key Girl again. All she had to do was stand there while they read off the tongue-mangling words of the incantation, and instant portal, no cutting or bleeding or dying required, yay for the miracles of modern science! Well, as long as where she wanted to go was Pylea, since that was the only dimension that Fred had the transformational coordinates for. Yet. But that was fine, since Pylea was where they needed to go.

In the rush of actually being able to do something useful with the Key gig for the first time, she hadn't let herself think about the fact that all the old baggage was still attached. Someone, somewhere, would always be trying to grab her and use her in some stupid apocalyptic scheme. Dawn let her head thunk back against the inn wall, giving in to self-pity for a moment, and then straightened with steely-eyed resolve. Fine. This time it was going to be different. No more damsel in distress, no more being a pawn in everyone else's mystical reindeer games. This Key was going to kick ass and take names. Or maybe just run like hell, that being something she was really good at, after all. "Let's grab our stuff and get out of here," she whispered to Spike. "Spike?"

Spike was curled up in a scaly grey-green circle, nose tucked into his paws. Dawn shook him. "Spike!"

Spike snored.

This was a situation calling for serious profanity. "Shit." She shook him harder, yanking on his mane. "Double shit. Spike, wake up!"

Muzzy golden eyes blinked up at her. Spike's tongue flicked out to rasp against her hand, and then he was dead to the world again. This wasn't right. Spike never slept that hard unless he was drunk, badly wounded, or utterly exhausted. They must have drugged the pig's blood--she should have suspected something earlier, the way Grigna had been trying to get Spike away from her. Crappity crap crap crap.

They couldn't stay here. Someone would notice them. OK. She'd moved Spike once or twice the summer after Buffy died, when she'd come to his crypt and found him passed out on the floor. She could do this. Of course, the summer after Buffy died, Spike had been conducting a scientific experiment to see if vampires could survive on a diet consisting solely of alcohol and Cheetos (it hadn't been a big success) and probably hadn't weighed more than one-forty. He hadn't been easy to lug around even then. In the year and a half since, he'd regained his appetite and considerable muscle, and there was no way she could haul almost a hundred and seventy pounds of rock-solid demon very far.

She looked desperately around the courtyard. Goggle's kennel? No, too dangerous. The stables? First place they'd look. What was the last place, the purloined letter of Pylean architecture? The place that was...

...right in front of her face.

Dawn scrambled to her feet and worked her hands under Spike's forelegs, heaving as hard as she could. "Ooof!" She managed to stagger a few feet before tripping over the edge of the cellar doors and collapsing in a panting heap on top of the comatose vampire. She yanked the cellar door open and heaved Spike over the threshold in an excess of adrenaline and panic--either the cellar of an inn counted as a public place, or Grigna's earlier permission to sleep in the stables counted as an invitation. Or maybe that was another vampire rule that worked differently here. They'd have to experiment. Later.

Getting Spike down the stairs was easier than trying to drag him across level ground--she just gave him a shove and he rolled most of the way down on his own. The cellar was at least well-provisioned, full of crates and bags and boxes of weirdly-shaped roots and dried fruit and flour and wheels of cheese. A row of big oaken barrels with spigots that smelled malty and weird cut half of the cellar off from the other half, and Dawn wrestled Spike behind one of the barrels and dashed back up the stairs, gasping with fear and exertion. She peered out into the courtyard; no one was in sight, so she raced across to the stables and bundled up her satchel in two of the horse-blankets. On the way out she took the broken stick which had barred the door and flung it over the wall of the courtyard, replacing it in the latch with another from the pile of firewood. There. Let them wonder about that locked room mystery a bit.

Spike was stirring when she got back, shaking his groggy head and wincing at his collection of mysterious new bruises. He started a growl and broke it off when he realized who she was. "Shh," Dawn said. She pointed at the second set of stairs, which led up into the inn's kitchen. "Grigna drugged your blood. They want to get rid of you and sell me because of a prophecy or something. It's--no, Spike, wait!" Spike was staggering lopsidedly towards the stairs with blood in his eye. Dawn tackled him, grabbed his hindquarters, and managed to knock him off his feet. "You can't take on the whole place!"

"RAUUURGH!" _And why the fuck not?_

"Because _I_ just knocked you over, is why! You're still all dopey! Wait till it wears off and kill them tomorrow!"

Spike glared at her for a long moment, then subsided with a sullen snarl. He paced unsteadily back into the depths of the cellar, sniffing at every suspicious box and crate, until he found a little box-cave to crawl into. Dawn spread out one blanket on the packed earth of the floor, and draped the other one across the boxes, and the two of them crawled into their makeshift hideaway and curled up together. Dawn flung an arm across Spike's side and buried her face in his mane; he didn't have any body heat to speak of, but it was still a comfort to lie close to another friendly body. Stripped of the leather and cigarette smoke, he still smelled like Spike: earthy and male and comforting. His ribs rose and fell under her hand--did he need to breathe, in this world, or was he just doing it from habit, like always?

A wet raspy tongue caressed her cheek. Spike didn't care who was after her or why, whether she was the Key or not. Spike just loved her. And that... that was pretty cool. After awhile, Dawn's eyes closed, and she slept.

Dawn woke with a start as something warm and wet and heavy dropped on her chest with a squishy thump. The door at the top of the kitchen stairs was open, letting a long shaft of pale light into the cellar. For a second she panicked, convinced that Grigna had found them and she was going to spend the rest of her life in the salt mines of Barsoom. She shot upright. The squishy thing tumbled into her lap and she banged her head on the box roofing their hideout. "OW!" Dawn rubbed the top of her head. If Grigna didn't already know they were there...

Spike was sitting a few feet away, his stubby tail whipping the floor, quivering all over with eagerness. His muzzle and forelegs were spattered with something dark and wet-looking--mud? Slime? Oh, ick, he hadn't brought her another dead rat-lizard, had he? She fumbled in her lap for the--BLEEDING TWITCHING VEINY HEART!!!!

"AAAAAGGGHH!" Dawn flung the offending organ across the cellar with a speed and force which would have done Randy Johnson proud. Spike leaped after it with a joyful yelp, sailing over kegs and bundles to retrieve his prize. Dawn was on her feet by the time he got back, holding her blood-smeared t-shirt away from her skin. Spike bounded up with the heart in his teeth, shaking it merrily from side to side, and crouched low with a mock-growl, daring her to take it away.

"When I said you could kill them tomorrow, it was a figure of speech!" Dawn wailed. Oh, jeez, what if he had slaughtered the whole inn? Would Buffy want to stake him? But they were all demons, maybe Buffy wouldn't care. Except there'd probably been humans staying at the inn, too. Or maybe Buffy would give him a bye for not quite being himself. If Angel got a pass for being Angelus, shouldn't Spike get a pass for being a lizard-dog-cat-ape-thing? Assuming they ever found Buffy again to begin with--

Spike seemed to realize that his present hadn't made quite the hit he'd been hoping for. The worried little wrinkle had reappeared between his brow ridges, and his ears drooped. He set the heart down at her feet and bumped it towards her with a forlorn whine. Dawn dropped to her knees with a groan and threw her arms around his neck. "Please tell me you didn't kill everybody!"

Spike's miserable little whimper wasn't reassuring. There was no avoiding it; she was going to have to go up and check out the damage. It wasn't difficult. All she had to do was follow the trail of bloodstains. Up the stairs, into the kitchen, out into the common room of the inn, where benches and tables were toppled in disarray and the main doors were swinging wide open. Trays of spilled food and beer were flung everywhere, and Goggle's huge carcass was lying in the middle of the room with his throat shredded to scarlet ribbons. Dawn looked down at Spike and realized with a chill that he was limping. Not all the blood he was wearing belonged to other people. She tightened her grip on his mane. He might be a psychotic killer hellbeast, but he was _her_ psychotic killer hellbeast.

The trail of dark red splatters didn't lead out among the tables, though, and there wasn't enough of it to account for an entire inn's worth of patrons. Was there? How much blood did the average demon hold?

Drip, splatter, drip, past the stairs to the guest rooms, into the rear of the inn. The door to Grigna's quarters was a claw-scored wreck, torn half off its hinges, and the room behind it--Dawn took one look and whirled away, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep her stomach from lighting out for greener pastures. Grigna and MacGregor were about as dead as you could get, reduced to little pieces of shattered bone and mangled flesh. Spike, it looked like, had had a lot of fun.

"So much for keeping a low profile," Dawn muttered. It was times like this when she suspected that maybe the monks had skimped a little on her moral makeup. It was pretty sick-making, and she felt bad about Grigna and MacGregor, but probably not as bad as she should have. They'd been about to sell her into slavery, after all, or into prophecy, which was worse. She felt more pity for Goggle; the poor thing probably hadn't led a very happy life.

The author of the carnage stood hunch-shouldered in the hallway, nose down, tail tucked between his legs, aware that he was in disgrace if utterly clueless about why. Dawn turned on him. "Spike, you've been very, _very_ bad." Spike cringed. "You killed them, and now we can't torture them for information."

Spike flattened himself to the bloodstained floor with a whine of abject apology, then cocked his head at the demon scraps and looked up at Dawn, hope gleaming in his eyes. "Mrrh?" _Only killed two of 'em, didn't I?_

He was right. The robed and hooded demon from the Brotherhood was nowhere to be seen--or at least his clothes weren't a part of the crimson Cuisinart leavings in that room. That might or might not be a good thing. "Spike, did anyone see..."

"Here, Constable! Here 'twas it happened!"

Oh, _double_ crap.

Dawn slipped out to the end of the hall and peered out across the common room. Through the gaping doors and across the beaten earth of the courtyard she could see a motley crowd of people gathering at the inn's gate, headed up by a large, phlegmatic Deathwok Clanner in quilted leather and a vaguely bobby-ish helmet, both adorned with a drokken rampant--the sigil of Lord Frothgar, according to MacGregor. The rest of the crowd was yapping at his heels like unruly chihuahuas assaulting a Great Dane.

"...eight foot tall, it was!"

"More like ten!"

"Glowing red eyes, like the fires of Shuqorth!"

"Claws!"

"Fangs!"

"Killed twenty men with one blow! Saw it myself!"

Dawn glanced down at Spike, who was sitting up again, purry and slit-eyed with satisfaction. "Oh, for crying out loud, stop looking proud of yourself!" Dawn whispered, elbowing him in the ribs. He deflated, but only a little.

Out on the street, no one in the milling crowd seemed eager to brave the Black Beast of Arrrgh. A large Gathwok Clanner poked the Constable. "Well, Gothwek? What about it? Do yer duty!"

"Hold yer flehegna," advised Constable Gothwek, flinging his arms wide and bringing all the majesty of the Law to bear upon the situation. "Supposin' the lot of yer haven't started yer fair-day drinkin' early and there is a drokken in there, the huntin' of wild animals, strictly speaking, isn't under my jurisdiction."

"That was no drokken," a thin human woman asserted. "'Twas a monster the likes of which none has ever seen!"

"Ah, monsters are an imperial affair, then," Gothwek said, seeming much relieved to have the chain of command straightened out. "Matter for the Groosalugg, being the kingdom's official slayer of monsters and all.

Jeers and catcalls broke out. "In case you hain't noticed, there's no Groosalugg no more!"

The crowd erupted into a yammering argument, with Gothwek trying futilely to quiet them down. Dawn sighed. "Come on, Spike, we've got to get you disguised."

The inn's layout was simple: common room, kitchen, and Grigna's rooms downstairs, and a large barracks-style sleeping area plus four private rooms upstairs. A quick search revealed no other bodies, which was a bigger relief than Dawn wanted to admit. There was quite a bit of evidence of people leaving in a huge hurry--rooms abandoned with half-packed rucksacks and clothing still in evidence, one room containing a cooling tub of bathwater, a batch of griddlecakes burnt to a crisp on the kitchen stove. Pillows had been ripped to shreds, furniture smashed, and the scoremarks of huge claws on every scratchable surface announced "Spike was here and he kicked ass!"

She hesitated for a long moment in the door of the room with the bathtub. The water was still clear and a little bit warmish, and there was a bar of coarse yellow soap on the floor. The rough washcloth draped over the side of the tub beckoned seductively. Frivolous, with a mob checking in their pitchforks and torches at the door, but she was covered with blood and dust and quite frankly reeked. "Heck with it, she muttered, and stripped off her filthy t-shirt. She washed in her underwear--at least if they arrested her, it would be clean.

Crawling out of the tub after the world's fastest scrub-up, Dawn began rooting through the belongings of the room's owner. Trousers, smock, belt--her hiking boots were better than anything this place could manage; she'd keep those. She emptied the contents of the rucksack onto the bed, putting the things she wanted to keep back inside. Comb, sewing kit, whetstone, change of clothes...

Claws scrabbled in the hallway, and Spike trotted up with something in his mouth--MacGregor's pipe and a tobacco pouch. Dawn rolled her eyes. Lost in a strange dimension, shape-changed into heck-knew-what, and Spike's biggest concern was feeding his nicotine habit. "Like we even know how to light the thing!"

"Grrh," Spike agreed, undeterred. He dropped his booty in the to-keep pile, and plunged into the tub with a splash, wallowing around till the water was stained scarlet. Dawn rolled up her sleeves and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hauling him up so she could examine his wounds. With the worst of the caked gore washed off, she could see that Goggle had torn a piece out of his shoulder, and there were long raking claw-marks along his flanks, where the trackerbeast had apparently been trying to get at Spike's vulnerable belly. The injuries were pretty nasty, and she thought the shoulder wound especially could have used stitches, but they were already beginning to close a little. Yay, vampire healing. At least that worked the way it was supposed to.

A glance out the window showed that the crowd at the gate had grown, and was sending little tentacles of itself on abortive forays into the courtyard. Spike reared up and set his forepaws on the windowsill, studying the foe, then threw his head back and let go with an eerie cougar-scream. The Pyleans inside the courtyard broke and bolted for the street, and several fist-fights broke out as they crashed back into the main body of the crowd. "Come on, Experiment 626," Dawn hissed. "Let's blow."

On the way through the kitchen she paused to grab a couple of loaves of bread, a hard sausage, and a few cooking utensils. Dawn studied herself in the polished back of a copper skillet. Wearing the shapeless brown smock and trews, with her hair tied up in a messy bun, she could pass for Pylean. Cool. Spike, on the other hand, was way too recognizable. She grabbed a handful of ashes from the fireplace and smeared them over his scales until he was an all-over dirty grey, adding a few artistic black smears with a hunk of burnt charcoal. There. A girl and her trackerbeast.

Out on the street the constables had managed to get the crowd under control, or at least, all rioting in one direction. There were battle cries and shouts of encouragement and, "Come on, men!" and the thunder of multiple feet on the flagstones. The front doors of the inn slammed back on their abused hinges and the mob poured into the common room, tripping over benches and smashing spilt crockery. The noise drowned out the creak and thump of the of the cellar door opening and closing very nicely.

Dawn grabbed the blankets from their hidey-hole, and Spike snatched up the satchel in his teeth. There were still a few people in the courtyard when she peeked out through the outer cellar door, but most of them were around the front of the inn. She eased through the gap and Spike followed, ghost-silent. No one noticed as they skittered across the side yard to the wall. Dawn grabbed to top of the courtyard wall, the toes of her boots scrabbling at the chinks in the rough stone. Spike's hand-paws closed on her waist and hoisted her up and over and Dawn dropped down into the alley. A second later Spike followed, and then they were walking swiftly down the alley.

The suns were shining, the tree-lizards were singing, and the air swam with the scent of fried bread, grilled peppers, and roast beast. The commons in the center of town was a broad and well-trodden field bordered with spreading shade trees. This morning it was home to half a dozen straggling lines of tents, booths, and wagons. There were farmers' stalls heaped high with vegetables and strange fruits, glossy pyramids of red and gold and green and purple. There were flower-sellers, surrounded by buckets filled with fragrant, dripping bouquets and nosegays and bundles of sweet or pungent-smelling herbs. There were stalls selling eggs and cheese and butter and crates of squawking chickens; stalls hung with fly-swarming sides of mutton, pork and flehegna; stalls draped with brightly colored skeins of wool and flax and bolts of cloth. There were tinkers and blacksmiths, toymakers and acrobats and mummers, storytellers and fire-eaters plying their arts to the oohs and aaahhs of the crowd. There were barkers in front of gaily striped tents, exhorting the passers-by to drop a copper in the pot and see the amazing two-headed calf or the world's largest crocagator; there were games of chance (which were rigged) and games of skill (which were also rigged.)

In other words, it was a huge open-air mall, and Dawn was in her natural habitat. The only thing missing was music. There were no singers, no lute-players, not even a drummer to keep time for the costumed dancers shuffling and kicking in the center of the field. She'd never realized how much you could miss a thousand and one strings playing "I Think We're Alone Now" in the background.

Dawn wandered along the grassy aisles, Spike ambling at her side. She'd observed enough buying and selling to figure out the coins, and was pretty sure she hadn't made a complete fool of herself buying breakfast. She browsed through stalls selling hair ribbons and earthenware plates and cups, nibbling on honey-drenched fried bread. She picked up a silver hairclasp and examined it with longing, straining her ears for any mention of strangers. She'd originally figured that she could just run around asking if anyone had seen a short, violent blonde, but that no longer seemed like a great idea. Until she could find out who this oracle was and why it had drawn a metaphorical Big W on her forehead, not to mention Spike going all Bonnie and Clyde on her, she'd have to lay low.

So far she'd learned that the Blighted Pig had been utterly destroyed by a rampaging hellgod, that the kunkle-nut crop was going to be poor this year, that a prize boar belonging to Urtwak of the Gathwok Clan had knocked over a fence belonging to Hifreng of the Roovwok Clan, and rooted all through his blood-turnip patch, and that Constable Gothwek was on the take. Whoopie. Mayberry RFD with demons.

She paused at a stall piled with used books, paging curiously through the volume on the top of the stack. They were leather-bound and mostly falling to pieces, and the crabbed script inside meant nothing to her. It was annoying to think that the Chronicles could be right under her nose and she wouldn't recognize them. Maybe she should try to learn a few demon languages. She'd aced Spanish last semester.

Spike sniffed as a human woman bumped past them in the crush, dragging a train of half-a-dozen diminishing offspring behind her, and made a hungry noise halfway between a growl and a whine. "Didn't you...eat...this morning?" Dawn whispered.

Spike extended his tongue with a 'bleaaah' noise. _Are you daft? Demons taste like shit._

"Why didn't you say so?" She tried to remember how much blood Spike drank in a normal day. Two or three pints, she thought--he was a very active vampire--but he always needed more when he was injured. Animal blood was OK for ordinary feeding, but it didn't have the oomph of human blood when it came to quick healing. And it seemed like a good idea, given his current condition, to keep him fed up as well as possible. No sense in burdening his iffy self-control any more than necessary.

A cage full of quivering noses and twitchy ears presented the solution to the problem. Dawn dropped to her knees in front of the hutch, examining the rabbits with a frown.

"Plump, tender coneys, just right for the stewpot!" the woman presiding over the hutch exclaimed.

Dawn remembered Anya's advice to always make the seller come to you, and hmm'd and tsked for a bit before getting up and making as if to leave. "They look a little scrawny to me," she said. "And that's one's kind of crusty-eyed. He isn't sick, isn't he?"

The woman gasped in horror. "Sick? Why, these beasts are the healthiest in all Pylea! Only a twibit each. You can't do better than that, miss!"

As it turned out, Dawn could do better than that. Shortly thereafter she and Spike were the proud owners of four rabbits and a wicker basket thrown in. (And hello? Four rabbits for six bits and Grigna had only offered a measly tri-bit for Spike? Geez!) Dawn bought a roasted, butter-dripping ear of something that looked like corn except that it was bright blue (which meant it might actually be corn, she guessed) and they settled down under a tree near the edge of the fairgrounds, out past the last few shabby booths whose wares resembled the dregs of someone's storage closet more than a business enterprise. Dawn unsheathed her big-ass knife and cut herself hunks of bread and sausage to go with the corn, and Spike pinned the first squealing rabbit down with his forepaws, bit its head off, and sucked the body dry with the dispatch of a Cajun eating crawfish.

Dawn leaned against the tree and licked butter off her fingers as he repeated the procedure with the others. She pulled out the little box of dark heavy wood which she suspected was a tinderbox out of the satchel and examined it. It was full of dry fluffy stuff and smaller pots of... something, she wasn't sure what, and there didn't seem to be any obvious way to get fire out of it. And they needed fire, because, well, they just did, because all intrepid adventurers could start a fire. Oh, wait, there was a rock at the bottom, and a little file kind of thing. Flint and steel? In theory she knew that you hit them together to make sparks, but...

A short, scruffy-looking Deathwok Clanner with an eyepatch and a tatty, stained purple robe was setting up shop--or rather, rickety table and blanket--next to the last booth in line. Several of the nearby merchants glared at him with _There goes the neighborhood_ glares. He ignored the laser eye beams of death, threw back his head and bellowed, "Exotic fabrics from the far land of Poli Yester! Unguents to protect and beautify! Magic firemakers!"

Dawn started. What had he just said? She'd gotten so used to the cries of the merchants hawking their goods that his spiel barely registered, but...

"Implements from the mystic forges of the Khaleef Orneea!" Scruffy One-Eye yodeled. "Come one, come all, for my prices would make a stone weep and the supply is extremely limited!"

Spike looked up with a snort--having extracted every possible drop of blood from his lunch, he was thoughtfully consuming the carcasses for dessert--and got to his feet, nose twitching. He took off with a bound and Dawn scrambled after him. "Spike! No! Wait!"

He bowled the Deathwok merchant over, pinned him to the ground and began snuffling him aggressively up and down. Dawn grabbed his horns and tugged. "OFF, Spike! Sorry," she panted, aware that most of the ashes had long since worn off, and Spike didn't look all that much like a trackerbeast even if they hadn't. Thankfully the shoulder wound was almost closed by now, and the other marks were already fading. "He's kind of over-protective."

"A remarkable beast, to be sure," the little demon said, sitting up and dusting himself off. "Sadly, he has damaged my goods, and you must pay."

"He didn't even touch your goods," Dawn said, and hauled out Anya's Fourth Rule of Acquisition. "And I don't think he COULD damage them even if he did. I've never seen this much crud in my life."

Which was, in fact, a bald-faced lie, because the little demon's wares looked an awful lot like the content's of Buffy's backpack. There were a couple of tank tops, wool hiking socks, a pair of khaki shorts, a canteen, a toothbrush, a comb, lip balm (in Luscious Cherry) and assorted other things she was positive she'd seen her sister packing. But the kicker was the gleaming silver oblong in the center of the blanket: Spike's old Zippo. She pointed to the Chapstick and sniffed. "What is that? I don't think it came from anywhere near California."

"I am wounded! I am insulted beyond measure!" the little demon replied. "I have traveled to Leetle Cheeping all the way from Streeping Gruntle, and I obtained these items at great personal risk on my journey, in single combat with a hideous yellow-maned cow. Days the battle lasted, and each of these magical talismans were employed against me to dreadful effect, but--"

Spike planted both forepaws on the lighter and snarled possessively. Dawn rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. You stole her backpack when she was taking a bath, didn't you?"

A small crowd of amused onlookers had gathered to watch the show, and several of them hooted appreciatively. The little demon's cheeks turned a peculiar chartreuse. "That is vile calumny! I am outraged! I grow faint with--"

"HEAR YE, HEAR YE!"

It was their old friend Constable Gothwek, backed up by two younger and burlier colleagues, and the robed demon who'd been talking to Grigna the night before--Zekediah? The constable was carrying a large, official-looking roll of parchment under one arm, and the little entourage pushed its way into the center of the fairgrounds, booting the demonic Morris dancers out of the spotlight. One of the subordinate constables produced a small brass contraption which somewhat resembled a trumpet, and blew mightily. The result was an attention-getting but unmusical BLAAAAT!

"HEAR YE!" Gothwek bellowed. He unrolled the parchment and cleared his throat. "This here being an official proclamation in the name of Clan-Lord Frogarth, issued by his duly-appointed representative, that being me. On the morning of the twelfth day of Crug-grain-harvest-month, that being today, a most heinous crime was perpetrated upon Grigna of the Deathwok Clan, owner and proprietor of the Blighted Pig, and Grntspruut of the Gathwok Clan, a guest at that selfsame Inn, in that both of them were kilt dead. Furthermore acts of vandalism, theft and assault were perpetrated by the same, uh, perpetrators on this selfsame morning.

"Zekediah, late of the Covenant of Trombli, bears witness that the night prior to the aforementioned crimes, Grigna generously gave shelter to a strange cow." Gothwek waved the second constable forward. He held up a rough sketch which resembled Dawn insofar as it had two eyes, one mouth, and a nose. "This cow was accompanied by a beast believed to be a Van-tal--" Another sketch, of something at least six times larger, spinier, and fangier than Spike. The crowd broke into a murmur equal parts dismay and disbelief. "A dozen witnesses assert that this ungrateful and larcenous cow set her beast upon a crowd of innocent festival-goers, laughing with evil glee as it tore old men, women and children to bleeding shreds. Accordingly, the Clan-Lord authorizes a reward of twelve gold krocken for the capture of this cow--alive, so she may meet with her proper judgment and punishment. An additional five krocken is offered for the Van-tal's capture or proof of its death."

Dawn fought the urge to break and run. She folded her arms and tried to look bored and greedy...and as long as everyone was distracted... It had been awhile since she'd practiced her skills at the five-fingered discount, but the lighter and a few other choice items slid into her sleeve with gratifying swiftness.

All around people were murmuring excitedly about the reward. "Shocking," a woman with an apron full of leathery red eggs exclaimed. "We could all be murdered in our beds!"

"Foolishness," and elderly Gathwok Clanner said, shaking his cane. "Everyone knows that the Van-tal are nothing but a cow legend!"

"Right you are, Mogwint," a tall Deathwok man agreed. "But the reward...why, any cow might do for that picture." He squinted at Dawn. "That one, for... say, cow-girl, what kind of trackerbeast is that, anyway?"

"He's a...a bloodhound," Dawn said, hoping her voice didn't squeak too much as the crowd closed in around them. "I don't think I can stay another minute in a lawless frontier town like this. Which way is Streeping Gruntle?"

"I've never seen you around here before." The tall demon took a step closer, and Spike's hackles bristled.

"Well, duh, since I've never been here before," Dawn snapped. She pointed to the scruffy demon-merchant. "And neither has he!" She swung around to face the crowd, incidentally edging back towards the tree where their packs were. She was _not_ going to give up her hard-won...well, hard-looted...stuff. "How do you guys know it was a human who had Grigna killed?" she challenged, trying to catch the eye of the egg-carrying woman and the other humans in the crowd. "Because one of those Trombli guys says so? Like that's an unbiased source! How do you know he didn't kill them himself and them spread the story that a human did it just to cause trouble?"

A murmur rose as the humans eyed their demon neighbors. "That's ridiculous!" the Deathwok man said.

"Is it?" a shrill old human man cried. "What about that cottage what burned down after Old Tunket made his big win at the Hall of Drink And Chance?"

"Old Tunket burned it down hisself so's the Constable wouldn't find out he was a bandit!" the old Gathwok man yelled. "Gypsies, tramps and thieves, that's a cow for yer!"

"You take that back, you old belch-toad!"

"Cow scum!"

"Gathwok pig-swiver!"

The first egg flew through the air and split against the Gathwok elder's warty head with a _splat!_ It was followed in short order by rocks, bottles, and the odd billhook. Spike would have leaped into the fray with cheerful abandon had Dawn not dug a thumb into his still-healing shoulder to knock him off-balance. "No, Spike, not now! We've still got to find Buffy!" Spike looked torn--find Buffy, or fight several hundred irate demons at once? "You can still catch that little guy's scent, right? If we follow it back the way he came--"

Understanding dawned in Spike's eyes, and he lowered his nose to the ground with a deep whuff. For a minute or two he coursed back and forth across the grass, and then he looked up with an eager whine. Dawn shrugged the rucksack over her shoulders, looped the satchel around Spike's neck and hung on to the strap, and they were off.

In the nick of time, too. The brawl was rapidly expanding to Great Race proportions. They ran through the fairgrounds, dodging between booths and ducking under thrown punches and flung pies. Spike looked neither to the right nor the left in pursuit of his objective, plowing through fruit stands and bowling over mimes, who shook silent fists at his retreating back. They tore past Constable Gothwek and Company, heading for the road out of town.

"There! That's her!" Zekediah shrieked as Dawn dashed past. Spike's fangs flashed and Zekediah grabbed the seat of his robe and howled. Spike danced away with a mouthful of cloth and no small amount of demon-butt to go with it.

Only about half the people in sight could hear the Covenanter's words over the noise of the fair and the growing fight; only about a quarter of them could understand it. Still, that made for a pretty impressive pack of demons and humans and indeterminates baying on their heels. Dawn tore down the cobbled main street, following Spike's nose. She liked to think she was in pretty good shape, what with the self-defense lessons and the part-time slaying, but she wasn't superhuman. From the commons to the city gates of Leetle Cheeping was maybe two miles, and they covered it at a pace which for Spike was a lazy lope, but which would have gotten her on any track team in the state. By the time they approached the south gates Dawn was gasping for breath and Spike was half-dragging her. "Go on!" she yelled. "Find Buffy!"

Spike skidded to a halt, that till-the-end-of-the-world look glittering in his hellfire-yellow eyes. He spun on his own length and launched himself at the oncoming foe with a roar, fangs bared and claws slashing. The foremost pursuer ran right into him, with a result very similar to the effect achieved by flinging a steak into a meat-grinder. Spike reared up over his victim and roared again, and the second-fastest of the mighty vampire hunters abruptly discovered important things to do in the opposite direction. The third-fastest of the mighty vampire hunters, the ones who'd actually bothered to find weapons, spread out and began to make a circle. Spike turned again, and ducking low, dodged between Dawn's legs and stood up.

"Whoa!" Dawn yelled, grabbing the strap of the satchel. "Feet! Ground! Yow!" Spike put his head down, aimed for the thinnest portion of the closing circle of hunters, put his horned head down, and _ran._

Dawn flung her arms around his neck, bent her knees as far as they would go to keep her feet from dragging, and lay as flat against his back as she could. Spike's shoulder blades slammed into her ribs with every stride and cobbles flew by at dizzying speed beneath his racing paws, quarterhorse fast, cheetah fast, hot-rod Lincoln fast. Dawn knew that he couldn't keep this pace up for long, but with luck they wouldn't have to. Spike made a reasonably large hellbeast, but he was still far too small for a five-foot-seven-and-counting girl to ride in anything approaching comfort.

The cleverer pursuers had figured out where they were heading, and were already raising a hue and cry to close the gates. The wooden doors, twelve feet tall and hinged and barred in rusty iron, were swinging closed even as they approached. Alone, Spike could have leaped the wall and escaped easily. Carrying her... Dawn squeezed her eyes shut. She was going to have to let go at exactly the right moment. Too soon, and Spike would realize what she was up to and turn around to pick her up again, or try to fight all of them off. Too late and she'd drag him down. She had to time it juuuuust right...

WHAM! The gates, which had been within a foot of closing, shuddered and flew open again, sending the guards who'd been struggling to pull it to staggering into the wall. Standing in the gap was a small blonde woman with a very large sword. She was wearing what looked like a recycled potato sack, her face was smudged, her hair was filthy, and her eyes promised slow and painful death to anyone who so much as mentioned that she was having a bad hair day.

"All right," said Buffy Summers. "Which one of you guys took my backpack?"

Her eyes went wide as she saw Spike barreling straight towards her, and her sword whipped around in a deadly arc. Spike's claws scrambled for purchase on the slippery cobbles as he tried to halt his headlong charge, and Buffy's eyes met his and went even wider. He slewed a hundred and eighty degrees, flinging Dawn off into the street and out of harm's way, while Buffy threw all her strength into diverting the path of her blade. Off balance, she and Spike crashed into one another and rolled head over heels across the cobbles, Spike whimpering and licking her face in frantic joy, Buffy showering kisses on his scaly muzzle.

Dawn staggered to her feet, clutching at her knee, and sagged back against the cool grey stone of the wall. "Guys!" she yelled, pointing at the oncoming hordes. "Focus!"

The two of them turned as one, Spike's growl underlining her sister's snarl, and for just a second, before the two of them tore into the half-dozen (really brave, really stupid, or really greedy) demons still in pursuit, Dawn could have sworn that her sister's eyes flashed just as yellow as Spike's.

One of the weird things about Spike and her sister was how from the first moment they'd met, the two of them fought as if they'd known each other for a million years. It was like their bodies spoke a language that it had taken their heads and hearts years longer to learn. Spike diced when Buffy sliced, and chopped when she julienned. When Buffy's sword jammed between the ribs of a Deathwok woman with purple ribbons braided into her beard, Spike dove for the heels of the balding human brigand about to fire a crossbow bolt into her back and hamstrung him with one savage bite. The man screamed and stumbled, and the bolt twanged off at a crazy angle. Without even turning around Buffy grabbed it in mid-flight and drove it through the shoulder of a Gathwok farmer about to plunge his pitchfork through Spike.

"Dawn, what did you DO?" Buffy shrieked, her sword turning the nearest demon into shish kebab.

"NOTHING!" Dawn yelled back. "We were so totally minding our own business, and then everyone wanted to kill us! It's some stupid Key thing!"

A small, pale face appeared from around the nearest gatepost--Willow, looking exactly like Willow, her eyes like big green saucers. "Dawn! We found you! Is that--that's not--" She gulped, giving in to whatever sense told vampires who their sires were. "Ohmigosh," she whispered. "I guess Angel was right."

"About what?" Dawn asked.

"Just before we left, he took me off to the side and told me that no matter how much I wanted to, I should never vamp out while we were in Pylea, because, well, that." She waved a limp and horrified hand in the direction of her sire, who was playing the spaghetti scene from "Lady and the Tramp" with the balding bandit's entrails. "I guess he didn't have time to tell Spike." Willow licked her lips, her expression more longing than revolted. "He was really worried about it. He said it was almost impossible to get back once you'd..."

"Uh...Willow...little drool there?"

Willow wiped her mouth with a guilty look. "Sorry. I haven't fed since we got here."

"Um. Well." Dawn covered her skinned knee with the palm of her hand and edged step or two away. "We had one rabbit left, I think, but--"

"Bunnies?" Willow cried in distress. "I can't eat bunnies!"

"There was also a horsie, a piggy, and some things I'd rather not know about."

A stocky Trombli raced past, Spike snapping at his heels. Buffy whipped her sword around and sliced him in two, sending blood splattering across the cobbles. "How many people are after you, anyway?"

"Uh...all of them?" Dawn pointed towards the guardsmens' horses, stamping and fidgeting in their pickets. "I think there should be fleeing. Like, soon." Buffy glanced towards the center of town, and Dawn rolled her eyes and hefted her rucksack. "Look, I stole your lip gloss and Spike's lighter back from the weasely little green guy. Plus? I've got soap and a hairbrush."

"And a change of clothes?" Buffy demanded.

Dawn grinned. "Sure."

WHACK! The head of the guy Spike was ripping apart went flying, ending the screaming. Buffy wiped her sword on what was left of his tunic. "Then my work here is done."

It was a warm, clear blue evening, and they were camped in a grove of I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Birch about ten miles south of Leetle Cheeping, on a grassy rise above a stream. Buffy was down at the bottom of the hill, engaged in extensive and blissful communion with the stream and Dawn's bar of soap, and the borrowed horses were champing grass and switching their tails. "And the important lesson we learn from this experience," Willow said, tossing an armload of firewood down, "is that ten feet of chicken wire doesn't work nearly as well as a convertible. But at least we all ended up within ten of fifteen miles of each other."

"Words to the wise." Dawn poked the fire with the end of the stick she was charring, watching the sparks fly up with a feeling of accomplishment. Dawn Summers, Mistress of Flame. OK, she hadn't figured out the tinderbox thing yet, but she was the one who'd shoplifted the lighter. "Now all we have to worry about is finding the books. Oh, yeah--and the Library of Korthspar turns out to be, like, two weeks' hike away from here, and somewhere there's an oracle that knows I'm the Key and is telling the world, and the Covenant of Trombli and the local warlord has a humongous reward out on me and Spike."

"Oh, is that all? Notice how I make no mention of disassembled pastry products." Willow grimaced as Spike padded up out of the gathering dusk and dropped a dead vole in her lap. He'd been bringing his finicky get tidbits all day--live rabbits and ground squirrels and lizard-rats with artistically broken backs, so they'd still twitch and scream enticingly. At first he'd herded them carefully towards Willow in an attempt to coax her into feeding--_Come on, love, it's easy! Just pounce and bite!_\--but apparently he'd decided that even that remedial degree of hunting was beyond her capabilities. At least his efforts had supplied them with dinner, currently sizzling over the fire. Buffy might not be the world's greatest cook, but it was surprising how well seven years of demon-killing prepared you to dress game.

"Thanks, Spike," Willow said, looking simultaneously starved and queasy. "But I'll just wait till we get to a town with a butcher shop. I'm fine, honest."

Spike sat back and cocked his head with a worried whine.

"Spike's right. We don't even know if they have butcher shops here," Dawn pointed out.

Willow grimaced. "I know. But I can't feed without...you know."

"You could just cut its throat and slurp on it. Look Ma, no fangs!"

Willow looked stunned. "Oh. Right. I guess I could." Her shoulders slumped. "I was just so worried about..." She waved at Spike again. "Angel said that we'd turn into a ravening monster that would kill anything in sight." She frowned, curiosity momentarily overcoming hunger, which was really pretty darn impressive for a vampire, even a souled one. "Spike's not exactly GQ material, but not so much with the ravening."

"There was plenty off-stage ravening," Dawn assured her.

"Yeah, but it sounds like it was directed ravening. He never even thought about attacking you or Buffy or me." Willow's frown got deeper and more intensely Willow-y. "That's very interesting. Angel said his demon-self hated everyone. Except Fred, apparently."

Dawn shrugged. "Well, duh. He's still Spike."

Spike's ears perked up and he jumped to his feet with a _wuff!_ of excitement. Buffy was trudging back up the hill, clean and combed and dressed in some of the far-too-large-for-her Pylean garb Dawn had lifted from the inn. He bounced over to greet her, weaving around her legs and purring up a storm.

"Is he... frisking?" Willow asked after a long stunned moment.

"Frolicking," Dawn proclaimed after judicious thought. "We SO should have brought a camera."

Spike dashed back to the fire and rubbed his head against Willow's knees lest she feel left out, a rather painful gesture of affection considering the horns. Willow patted him awkwardly. "I know he's still Spike. I can feel that." At Dawn's and Buffy's looks, she shrugged. "It's a vampire thing. You wouldn't understand. But we can't just leave him like this, can we?"

Buffy sat down and fondled Spike's ears absently, and Spike rolled over in the grass, waving his paws in the air and begging for a tummy rub. "No. We can't. He might not be as freakazoid like this as Angel was, but he's not exactly reliable either, and we can't watch him twenty-four seven. Did Angel tell you anything about how he was able to turn back, Will?"

Willow gnawed on her lower lip. "Not exactly. We were pretty rushed. He said the first time it happened because he was exhausted, and the second time because...he really, really wanted to be human again. "

Buffy frowned. "Then... Spike should be able to turn back any time he wants, shouldn't he?"

"Yeah, but look at him!" Willow made an expansive gesture in her sire's direction. Spike was lolling on his back with his head in Dawn's lap, while Buffy stroked his creamy and well-filled belly. His lazy rumbling purr filled the golden sphere of the firelight. "Not exactly dissatisfied with his lot!"

Dawn frowned. The demon lazing at her feet was perfectly at ease, perfectly happy, perfectly Spike. Just not all of Spike. Maybe he liked it like this. Simple. Uncomplicated. No moral dilemmas, just a handful of people he loved and everyone else was breakfast. You'd never see Spike frolicking back home. What if he didn't want to turn back?

He was still Spike, and whether he had two legs or four, blue eyes or golden ones, she'd love him, no matter what. But...this Spike would never wrestle for days over some awful, soppy rhyme for Buffy's birthday, or bitch about the latest development on _Passions,_ or teach her how to cheat at poker, or read _Kim_ aloud in a voice like burnt honey, or rail about Posh and Becks, or puzzle over whether or not it was OK to enjoy breaking Willy the Snitch's fingers when Willy _had_ been lying through his yellowing teeth. Demon-Spike was incredibly cool, but she didn't want to give human-Spike up, either.

"There's... something," Buffy said. Her cheeks were unwontedly rosy in the firelight. You might even say they glowed. "That, um, might...I mean, it usually...practically always..."

Dawn fixed her with a bright-eyed, uber-innocent stare. "Always what, Buffy? Whatever do you mean?"

Buffy fidgeted with her drying hair. "It's just that when we, um, and he's, you know, _excited_, at the crucial moment he's, uh, usually not. Anymore."

Spike looked up, highly insulted. "Not like _that!_" Buffy hastened to assure him, going beet-red. "The other kind of excited. Excited with fangs. So I thought...maybe...I could, uh, try...kissing him or something."

"And new depths of corny are plumbed," Dawn muttered.

"No, no, I think it might be worth a try," Willow said, a little excited herself. "It's a deeply symbolic gesture, and that's always really important in ritual magic."

Dawn had to give it to Buffy--there wasn't a single sign of distaste in her sister's face or body as she bent her head to Spike's. Her lips brushed his, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence. Ohmigod, she was actually giving him tongue!

Spike's eyes, for a second, flared blue, and Buffy's _definitely_ flared gold. The two of them broke apart and Spike surged to his feet with an urgent, eager growl, every muscle a-quiver. They were putting off more sparks than the fire was. "I think--" Buffy gasped, "I think maybe this would work better with some privacy."

And both of them were tearing off, scarcely taking the time to grab a blanket. As Spike crested the top of the hill, he looked back--Dawn couldn't be positive, but she was pretty certain that he winked.

She grinned, picked up the dead vole, poked a hole in its throat with the point of her big-ass knife, and offered it to Willow. "If you're good and eat all your vole, we got fry bread for dessert."

It was several hours later that Buffy and Spike came strolling back over the hill, Spike wearing the trousers half of Buffy's Pylean ensemble. They were bumping shoulders and whispering, and all Dawn caught was Buffy's giggle and "...gives a _whole_ new meaning to 'ribbed for her pleasure.'" Spike slapped her ass and Buffy smacked his shoulder and headed for the creek, hips swinging. Spike watched her go with a little grin, then stretched languidly and knelt down by the packs to rummage around until he came up with the pipe and tobacco pouch.

Dawn watched through sleep-fuzzed eyes as he tamped down the tobacco, lit it with a coal from the guttering fire, and drew till the bowl glowed cherry-red. He settled back against the packs, looked up at the alien stars, and blew a contemplative smoke ring. He looked...like Spike, unruly bleached curls and hawk nose and lean, muscled arms and eyes a dark slaty blue in the night. After a moment he took the stem of the pipe from his mouth and aimed it at Dawn. "Ought to be asleep, Pidge. Got a long march tomorrow, we have."

Dawn didn't ask if he was OK, because that would have been dumb. "It was kind of shitty for Angel not to tell you what would happen if you vamped out."

Spike snorted. "What're you on about? 'Course he told me. Rabbited on about it for a good fifteen minutes."

Dawn blinked and propped herself up on one elbow. "Then why'd you--"

The look Spike gave her was as eloquent as anything his demon self had come up with. "Cos Angel told me not to, of course."

"Oh." Of course. Duh. She should have guessed. She burrowed back into her blankets and watched Spike sending ghostly puffs of smoke skywards, feeling her eyelids growing heavy. The pipe smelled WAY better than those grotty cigarettes. Maybe she'd get him one for Christmas.

She was glad they'd found Buffy and Willow--of course--but in a way she was a little disappointed, too. She wouldn't have traded these last few days for anything. It wasn't that she grudged the time Spike spent with Buffy or Willow--much--but it had been really nice having him all to herself. Like old times. Except instead of the constant sick knowledge that Buffy was dead, there'd been the exciting certainty that Buffy was out there somewhere and they were going to find her--and how cool was it that she'd been the one to magnanimously rescue her sister from the travails of soaplessness? "I'm going to miss...well it's silly to say _you._"

Spike drew on his pipe and chuckled, and the firelight glinted like blood in his eyes. "That part of me's always there, love. Just a little easier to see here. 'Sides, I've got the hang of back-and-forthing it now. It's a bloody sight easier bringing down a rabbit when you're on its level, so to speak."

So not thinking about _how_ he got the hang of back-and-forthing. Dawn folded her hands under her chin. "What made you decide to turn back?"

A smile quirked the corner of his mouth, incised the lines at the corners of his eyes a little deeper in the firelight. "Let's just say your sis isn't gonna settle for anything less 'n all of me, and maybe a bit more 'n that."

"What...what was it like?"

Spike tilted his head back and sent another smoke ring up to the stars. His eyes were very far away all of a sudden. "You ever read 'Call of the Wild,' pet?"

Dawn nodded, looking up at the constellations Spike was looking at, wondering if they had names. "Yeah. Years ago. John Thornton dies in the end, and Buck goes back to the wolves. I think you need to look up the definition of 'reassuring' again, because that? Wasn't."

"Wasn't supposed to be." Spike exhaled a plume of smoke and rubbed the back of his neck the way he always did when he wasn't quite sure how to bring something up. "About the business in the inn..."

"You mean when the innkeeper set her vicious trackerbeast on us and you were forced to kill them all in self-defense?"

He broke into a grin. "That's my girl." He reached over and ruffled her hair, and tapped the smouldering remains of his tobacco into the fire.

That was the difference between her and Buffy, Dawn thought as she curled into her blanket and drifted back into sleep. She took Spike as he was. Buffy took Spike as he could be. She kind of thought Spike needed both of those things. Spike was never going to look at her the way he looked at Buffy, but Spike was never going to look at Buffy the way he looked at her, either.

And that...that was pretty cool.

**END**


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